


Boiling Point

by Sintero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel of the Lord Castiel, Dean Winchester - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Prayer sex, Shower play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean fantasizes a little too prayerfully in the shower. PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boiling Point

Dean and Sam have an unspoken alone-time agreement.

While they’re kicking back in one dingy motel or another, there’s always a point at which Dean has to go on a beer run. But he just has to drive to that watering hole on the _opposite_ side of town because you know the beer isn’t perfect until it’s just sweaty enough to make the cardboard box soggy. Or Sam will suddenly profess that Dean’s bitching is just about all that he can take and he’ll be researching at the library for the next hour at least, thank you very much. They’ve never voiced their agreement directly, but the implication and the invite always hang heavily in the air.

Dean grins lopsidedly when it’s his turn and Sam finally leaves for his prearranged 60 minutes. He waits until he can hear the fading purr of the Impala in the distance and reaches under the dilapidated motel couch to pull out only the finest of literary works, _Busty Asian Beauties_. It takes all of two seconds for his jeans to go flying onto the coffee table and about one second more for his boxer-briefs to follow.

If he wiggles the paper and squints just right it looks like the ladies are putting on a private show.

He gently handles the softness of his cock, playfully trying to coax it to life as he flips through an ever increasingly more debauched photo spread of Ms. Siamese September. He alternates rubbing a calloused thumb around the rim of his head and tugging gently with a loose fist from the base of his shaft up with little success; not even a twitch of interest. Maybe he’s just tired from an excessively long week of hunting in a different town every night and twice on Tuesday, but even full spread Ms. Japanese July just isn’t doing the trick like she should. Five minutes of aborted attempts later, Dean growls as he disgustedly throws the magazine onto his pile of clothing and storms off to the shower.

The tub/shower combo is a small, dingy thing that smells like mildew and was probably white at some point in its artificially extended lifetime. And the place must have broken the budget before they could install a curtain rod, but certainly not before splurging on the most god-awful red tile backsplash that he’s ever seen in his life. Dean winces and looks away. God-awful. Here’s to hoping the water heater runs forever in this bordello of a bathroom Dean thinks to himself.

The shower spray is mercifully hot against Dean’s stiff neck and shoulders. Hot showers are one of those small human miracles, Dean thinks. He’s grinning as he includes opposable thumbs and vivid imaginations in that list. Supporting himself with one hand against the cold tile, he begins to cup himself again, this time getting an immediate twitch of response as he slides his eyes shut and imagines ancient blue eyes looking up at him while his cock disappears into the pucker of chaste lips.

“Cas. Oh, God, Cas…” he gasps raggedly in time with his strokes. Castiel’s name is his mantra as he thrusts into his own firm grip, imagining someone else’s hands rhythmically squeezing his shaft and rubbing a thumb over the warm swell of his head. Dean presses his forehead into the warming tile of the shower wall and _groans_ ; it’s obscene and broken, and maybe a little prayerful.

Pressure is building in Dean’s head and all he can hear are his own labored breaths and the blood roaring in his ears. The gentle rustle of feathers in the small bathroom goes unremarked.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean whips around, water spray and guilty hands flying to hide his erection. _Oh, shit. Oh, SHIT_. And there he is, Castiel, with all one hundred layers of clothing in the dead heat of summer, tie askew, and his head canted slightly.  But gone is the stolid, vaguely confused expression with which he typically approaches anything human, Dean especially, replaced instead with bold, knowing hunger.

And damn it all if that isn’t the most terrifying thing Dean has ever seen.

“Really, can’t a man get some privacy around here!” Dean roars, throat tight with embarrassment. He’s vaguely satisfied with the way his voice is magnified in the close confines of the bathroom. Castiel ignores Dean’s discomfort and appears suddenly six inches from his face, trenchcoat blocking the jet spray of the shower nozzle and loafers filling with water. For a tense moment the only sound to be heard in the tiny, dingy bathroom is the ceaseless sputtering of the water and the doleful song of Dean’s flagging erection.

“You prayed to me. For me,” Castiel whispers. And with that proclamation, Cas is sinking down to his knees in the tub basin. There’s no room to back-up any further, but Dean damn sure tries. “Whoa, whoa, Cas. Hold on a second,” Dean exclaims. This is happening too fast, and it’s everything that he has ever fantasized about, but he’s never considered actually…you know. However, it’s hard to concentrate on emotional hang-ups with the angel’s hands ghosting down the wet planes of his body and his traitorous erection roaring back to life at the sight. Castiel is a tidal force that cannot be contained, and all too quickly his cool tongue follows the trail of his hands on Dean’s fevered skin. The hunter groans brokenly.

He knows that all he has to do is say “no” and Castiel will gracefully disappear without a word, but the agonizing thought of pride getting in the way of having _this_ just barely overcomes his misplaced reluctance. Castiel flicks his tongue against the base of Dean’s cock and smoothes his fingers down the valley of where muscle and hip bone meet. Dean dares to card his fingers through Castiel’s hair and chances a glance to where the head of his dick is slowly sliding past puckered pink lips.

Dean bucks forward to seat himself further in the soft, strange coolness, but Castiel’s hands are holding his hips tight against the wall tile like a vice and Castiel glances up at him in warning. Dean tends to forget that Castiel is a God-hewn marble statue of righteousness and holy wrath and it’s a sobering reminder that his angel will not be rushed. A tight heat pulses deep in his belly at the thought and his head falls back against the wall with a dull, wet thud. Then slowly, so slowly, Cas takes all of him inch by heated inch and the world is unhinged. Castiel runs his tongue brutally up and down the bulge of the vein on the underside of his dick in direct rhythmic opposition to the wet slide of his lips. It’s vaguely confusing and feels like he getting fucked two ways at once, but, God, is it good. The angel’s worshipful attention feels like it’s wrapped in a promise of forever. Just as his cock begins to weep and Dean moans at the ceiling into the steaming shower spray, Castiel’s tongue pulls back to flick over the hot flare of Dean’s head with his lips still sealed around the hunter’s shaft.

It’s at that moment that Dean makes the mistake of looking down.

Castiel is fully clothed and sopping wet, hungrily meeting Dean’s gaze through rivulets of water dripping from his own bowed head, and damn-it if that doesn’t send Dean over the edge. His angel grips his hips bruisingly tight and sucks hard as Dean orgasms. _Holy shit_ , it’s unexpected, pain intermingled with a heady pleasure that has no fucking clue if it’s great or _really, really great_. Castiel hasn’t stopped sucking, gently now, thank God, but his mouth is too much on Dean’s overly sensitive cock. Dean stops the eager angel with a firm hand to the forehead. He tries his best not to let his mouth fall open when he sees the rise and fall of his angel’s adam apple as Castiel swallows.

“God, Cas,” he whimpers. Castiel tilts his head bemusedly, but doesn’t deign to comment on Dean’s blaspheming.

Allowing Dean’s still semi-hard cock to slide out of his mouth, Castiel slowly rises from his penitent posturing, licking and dusting his now-swollen lips up the muscular plane of Dean’s tremulous stomach. When he’s finally standing eye-to-eye with his human, Dean can’t help but look away from the intensity of Castiel’s stare. There’s a powerful knowing that speaks everything of _ancientness_ in those glowing blue eyes, the impact of which is only slightly diminished by the line of cum on Cas’ cheek.

Dean has no idea how to transition from this. “Well…uh, thanks…Cas,” he mutters eloquently.

An uncharacteristically deep chuckle resonating against his chest brings Dean’s orgasm clouded mind back to the cold naked body that’s now pressed against him. Where Cas’ sopping wet trench coat and suit disappeared to and when is beyond Dean’s capability of rational reasoning. All he knows is that he’s off balance, his buttocks are pressed into the hideous red tile backsplash, and Castiel is insistently sliding a pretty damn impressive erection along the inside of his thighs.

Dean’s brow is furrowed and a slow trickle of fear seeps into his chest. His fantasies never really went further than oral up until now, and Castiel’s insistent attentions are worrisome.

It’s then that Castiel abruptly dips down, places his forearms behind Dean’s knees and _lifts_. Suddenly, he’s folded in half, ass hanging temptingly close to Castiel’s ridiculously well-endowed cock, knees hanging over his angel’s bent elbows, and infinitely powerful hands supporting Dean’s back. The hunter panics, he can’t help it. “Cas, this is too much, man. I can’t do this!” And he struggles to dislodge the mountain of cosmic power lauding him with love and lust in a dingy motel bathroom.

Castiel inhales and it’s as if the universe pauses.

“Dean,” he whispers soft as a vesper. “Please. Allow me to answer this one prayer for you; allow me to give you this moment of pleasure, a taste of the multitude that you have selflessly offered me,” Castiel states, lips planted softly into the side of Dean’s neck, the baritone rumble of his voice calming in a primal way.  “Be still and let me show you the glory of my love.”

Holy crap, romance novels don’t hold a fucking candle to what comes out of his angel’s mouth. Coming from anyone else it would be cheesy, but Cas is so achingly heartfelt in his endearments that Dean relaxes as much as he can into Cas’ solid arms. Curling closer, arms wrapping around Castiel’s neck, Dean leans in and whispers haltingly “Yeah, okay. Love you too.” Fucking poetry.

The click of the conditioner cap echoes in the small room like a gunshot.

Before he has time to register the implications or mechanics of agreeing to Honest-to-God penetrative sex with an angel, there’s an intense pressure at his anus, which truthfully feels more strange than anything. Castiel rubs his back soothingly and places his forehead gently against Dean’s. “Trust in the righteousness of our joining. Relax, Dean.”

 _Relax?_ This is Sodom and Gomorrah level shit, Dean thinks, and he’s pretty sure that Cas isn’t exactly the moral authority on heavenly ethics.

Ultimately, the hunter makes up his mind and purposefully takes a deep breath, near choking on shower spray, allowing himself to sink further into the unyielding embrace of his angel. Castiel circles a finger slowly around Dean’s anus and convinces the tight muscles to relax just enough to gain entry. It’s uncomfortable at first, and only grows more so as Castiel pushes up to the second knuckle.

Clutching the cool skin of Castiel’s shoulders with stiff fingers, Dean brokenly begins to repeat his angel’s name in a strangled litany of both pain and pleasure. His reddened lips part and his breaths become ragged, hitching every time Castiel stretches him further. Castiel himself is positively vibrating. The water of the shower spray is no longer touching his skin due to the subsonic frequency and force of his restraint. Gently sliding the tip of his cock against the tight warmth of his human threatens to unhinge Castiel, and he forces himself to pause before he tears out of the confines of his mortal shell and positively _floods_ into Dean in his anticipation.

Lining up the flare of his cock with Dean’s anus, Castiel pushes slowly until the pressure gives way and his head is immersed in wet, tight heat. The hunter grits his teeth and frowns against the pain of the significantly thicker intrusion. It’s only when Castiel allows his hips to begin thrusting, ever so shallowly, that the pain begins to intermingle with something that’s not so much pleasure as over-whelming sensation on every level. His angel begins to forge deeper and that’s when Dean’s legs start shaking in this strange, all-consuming, non-pleasure, over-sensitive, but holy- _fuck_ it may be worth it flood of sensation.

Agonal gasps consume him in time with the rhythmic tempo of Castiel’s hips. They’re both drowning in a barrage of tap water and lust. Castiel kisses him deeply with lips still swollen from sucking Dean’s cock and the hunter can’t help but moan as he tastes himself on his angel’s tongue. There’s a swell of pressure around the plunging head of Castiel’s cock that is suddenly building Dean’s overwhelming sensation of pseudo-pleasure into something that grasps at the warm curl in the pit of his stomach in pure, unadulterated bliss. The hunter flexes his knees hard against the immutable strength of his angel’s arms, toes curling rigidly and fingers blindly grasping, burying the roar of his pleasure in Castiel’s solid chest. Castiel feels the warm arc of Dean’s cum where the human’s cock is buried in the friction between their stomachs and the world explodes without fanfare.

Castiel slams a hand over Dean’s eyes and lets out a transcendental ringing that surely would be a scream of ecstasy if it existed in the human plane. Light floods the dingy little bathroom as Castiel’s cum floods into Dean, cold and sobering. They stay like that for some time, the warm shower water pattering off of their skin while Castiel supports Dean’s weight as if he’s no more than a balloon, grounded only by the solid presence of the angel’s cock still inside of him. Castiel continues to twitch deep inside of Dean in the silent afterglow of their union.

The shitty red tile backsplash is littering the floor in a motley array that looks like modern art, shards of the vanity mirror intermixed like stars. The water heater still hasn’t given up and Dean suspects that there may be some heavenly intervention at play. The only way this day could be more miraculous is if the water was to turn into single malt whiskey.

Dean just can’t imagine Castiel turning it into some girly shit like wine.

 


End file.
